Chapter Forty: Prologue - The Last Summer

The WIX were supposed to have one last, perfect summer together — or so Sol had declared, loudly and with many dramatic flourishes, at the end of their final feast at Hogwarts. A proper farewell to chaos before life snatched them in nine different directions.

Naturally, they hadn't planned a single thing.

Which was how they ended up sprawled in the Dawsons' garden on the first proper night of summer, a lazy evening that hummed with leftover warmth and the faint, smoky scent of Edgar Dawson's experimental fire-whiskey glaze still hanging in the air. They were stretched across conjured picnic blankets, butterbeer bottles already empty, a half-eaten pie from the kitchens balanced on Sol's stomach.

"This is it," Sol said, hands folded behind his head, shirt riding up just enough to show the faintest flash of skin. "The golden hour of our youth. The last hurrah before we're respectable adults."

"Speak for yourself," Gwenog muttered, poking at Iris' knee with her foot. "I plan to remain wildly irresponsible, just with a professional Quidditch contract."

"Merlin help the Harpies," Magnus said, mouth twitching. "They're hiring you and Erika. That's not a team, that's a war crime."

"We're a dynamic duo," Gwenog said proudly. "I send bludgers. She sends condolences."

"You send bludgers directly into people's spleens," Artemis said dryly, leaning back on her elbows. "There's a reason the Montrose Magpies tried to bribe you into joining them."

"They did not!" Gwenog sat up. "They just sent a very flattering fruit basket and a singing parchment."

"That sang 'Please Don't Kill Our Seeker' to the tune of Greensleeves," Iris added helpfully, her fingers lazily tracing shapes on Gwenog's thigh.

Gwenog grinned. "It was catchy."

Eliza, stretched beside Rosaline, snorted softly — the kind of sound that used to be rare for her, but was finally returning. Her hair was still slightly damp from a quick swim in the Dawsons' pond, and the familiar comfort of being surrounded by these people, her people, softened her usual edge.

"I can't believe you're leaving me," Henry said, not for the first time, dramatically flopping across Eliza and Rosaline's legs. "All of you traitors, abandoning me to the horrors of being Head Boy without a single one of you to corrupt me."

"Oh, please," Rosaline said, shoving him off with her foot. "You'll do fine. You've got 'model Head Boy' written all over you."

"Following in the esteemed footsteps of Magnus Kane and Artemis Lovelace," Sol said in an exaggerated announcer voice. "Scholar, prefect, beloved by faculty. And you're already dating someone way out of your league. Textbook."

Henry flushed slightly, but his smile was soft. "Jules is not out of my league."

"She's a pureblood diplomat's daughter and literally speaks four languages," Sol said. "I speak exactly one language and it's 'inappropriate at family dinners.'"

"She thinks you're hilarious," Henry said. "Which is concerning for both of us."

"Speaking of inappropriate," Magnus said, giving Sol a pointed look. "Are you ever going to tell your parents you're technically employed?"

"Excuse me, I'm a Diplomatic Liaison in Training," Sol said proudly. "My entire career is based on smiling at important people until they either forget why they're mad or invite me to dinner."

"Barty Crouch's personal chaos gremlin," Artemis said, raising her bottle in salute. "Perfect fit."

"Madam Bones called me 'alarming but oddly effective,'" Sol said, looking immensely pleased. "That's going on my gravestone."

Rosaline's fingers stilled against the blanket for half a second — so brief no one else noticed, except Eliza, who knew her twin's tells better than anyone. Rosaline had always been the most put-together, the planner, the one with a career in magical law lined up since Fourth year. But now, there was a hesitation behind her smile, something Eliza couldn't quite name.

"You're all ridiculous," Rosaline said, voice breezy. "We're barely eighteen, we're not supposed to have our entire lives figured out."

"You had your life figured out at Fourteen," Eliza said, eyebrows raised. "What happened to Law School?"

"Things change." Rosaline's smile flickered but held. "And I don't want to spend the whole summer obsessing over my future."

"Which is code for 'I have a secret,'" Sol declared, sitting up. "Spill it, Dawson."

Rosaline's hand twitched toward her stomach — a brief, subconscious movement Eliza barely caught before it was gone.

"Nothing dramatic," Rosaline said. "I'm just… taking some time. Studying locally for a bit before deciding."

Eliza didn't push, but the seed of suspicion was firmly planted. Rosaline didn't take time off. Ever.

"Speaking of terrifying," Iris said smoothly, shifting the conversation. "When are you telling your Aunt you got into that double mastery Arty?"

"Oh, after she recovered from the aneurysm caused by me applying in the first place," Artemis said.

"Enchanting and Potions," Magnus said proudly. "A perfect match for someone who thrives on making terrifying things more terrifying."

"I prefer the term 'creative solutions,'" Artemis said primly.

"Or 'weaponizing literally anything,'" Sol added.

Eliza leaned back, fingers curling around a stray blade of grass. "You're all so bloody talented."

"So are you," Rosaline said, nudging her gently. "Our future Auror."

There was a beat of silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Just weighty.

"I just… I want to be the kind of person younger girls look at and know they'll be okay," Eliza said quietly. "Even if I never catch anyone like Barker, I want them to know someone's watching."

"Godric's saggy pants, Eliza, now I have to cry," Sol said dramatically, flinging an arm over his face.

"Same," Gwenog said, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

They were quiet for a moment, the weight of the years pressing down, all the things they'd survived — wars, nightmares, heartbreak, themselves.

"So," Vivian said, breaking the silence as she leaned back on her elbows, the fading light catching the sharp angles of her face. "Does anyone want my autograph now, or after I become the first magical model to cause an international incident?"

"I can't believe you're actually doing that," Iris said, equal parts fond and horrified. "Muggle fashion is terrifying."

"So am I," Vivian said, smirking. "Perfect fit."

They laughed again — the kind of laugh you only share with people who have seen you at your absolute worst and stayed anyway.

Somewhere between the jokes and the teasing, the sun dipped lower, and the future they'd all been hurtling toward grew a little closer.

None of them were entirely ready.

But they had each other.

And for now, that was enough.

Technically, it was supposed to be a civilized toast — a small, private celebration for surviving Hogwarts, surviving NEWTs, surviving each other. Someone (probably Iris, because she was dangerously optimistic like that) had used the word mature.

Which was why, less than two hours later, Sol was standing on the Dawsons' garden table, wearing a tiara he'd nicked from Rosaline's costume chest, a half-empty bottle of firewhiskey dangling from his hand, shouting the lyrics to Celestina Warbeck's greatest hits — in falsetto.

The rest of the WIX were in varying states of collapse around the garden.

Gwenog and Erika Rath (who had somehow infiltrated the party, probably by scaling a trellis) were both lying flat on the grass, holding a butterbeer bottle between them, giggling like first-years who'd just learned their first swear word. Gwenog kept rolling halfway onto Iris, loudly declaring her undying devotion, while Iris — very drunk, very patient — just patted her head and said, "I know, love. I know."

Eliza, flushed and loose-limbed, was slow dancing with the garden gnome statue, humming what might have been the school anthem if you squinted. Magnus and Artemis were crammed into the same deck chair, arms tangled, the chair's legs visibly bending under their combined weight.

Artemis had given up entirely on composure — her hair was falling out of its usually perfect braid, her tie was around Magnus' forehead like some ancient warrior headband, and she was giggling.

Artemis never giggled.

"You look very handsome in my tie," she said, reaching up to flick the knot dangling between his eyes.

"Dashing," Magnus slurred back, tipping an imaginary hat. "D'you think I should get into fashion?"

"Absolutely not."

"Rude."

"I love you anyway."

Magnus blinked — a slow, owlish blink — but before he could respond, Sol's boot collided with a stray butterbeer bottle, sending it flying into the fish pond with a spectacular splash.

"Oi!" Rosaline's voice cut through the chaos. She stood — perfectly balanced despite her supposedly 'drunk' state — with her hands on her hips, radiating big sister energy at a hundred percent power. "If you drown the koi, I'm telling Mum."

"No one tell Lavania!" Sol shouted, hiccuping violently. "She'll confiscate my booze."

"You stole all of it from her cabinet," Iris pointed out helpfully, her head now resting comfortably in Gwenog's lap while Gwenog braided random bits of her hair with blades of grass.

"Semantics," Sol waved a hand.

Rosaline, the only one fully sober, had nursed exactly one watered-down butterbeer the entire evening, carefully topping it off whenever anyone got suspicious. She was too good at this — blending in, letting her laughter slur just enough, tilting her walk slightly off-balance — all to hide the secret.

She was absolutely pretending to be drunk. But when Sol swung an arm around her shoulders, breath warm and reeking of firewhiskey, she leaned into it — because this was the last night they would all be exactly this version of themselves.

"To the WIX," Sol shouted, holding his bottle aloft like some drunken monarch. "The brightest, dumbest, sexiest bunch of degenerates Hogwarts ever produced!"

"Degenerates with NEWTs!" Henry said proudly, waving a sparkler he'd accidentally set on fire. "Except me. Because I'm still a child."

"You're our child," Vivian declared, halfway draped across Rosaline's lap, her eyes glassy but bright. "Our precious baby Head Boy. I'm gonna send you embarrassing care packages."

"Please don't," Henry said weakly.

"Oh, I will."

Rosaline, unable to help herself, reached out and gently brushed Henry's hair out of his eyes. "You'll be fine next year," she said softly, almost too quiet for the others to hear. "You always were the best of us."

Henry's eyes softened. "That's not true."

"It is," she said firmly. "I mean it."

Before anyone could get too emotional, Sol spun dramatically off the table, landing in the grass with a loud oof, and announced, "I have an important question."

"God help us," Artemis muttered into Magnus' shoulder.

"If we all end up married and miserable in thirty years, can we all buy a castle and live in it together?"

"Absolutely," said Gwenog. "Separate wings, though."

"Iris and I want the library wing," Gwenog added.

"No, I want the library wing," Eliza mumbled from her spot by the gnome.

"Fine. Gwen and I get the dungeon," Iris said. "For… reasons."

"Sexy reasons?" Sol waggled his eyebrows.

"Absolutely none of your business," Gwenog said, flinging a clump of grass at him.

"Henry and Juliette can have the rose garden," Vivian said dreamily.

"Sol gets the stables," Artemis added.

"I do love horses," Sol said solemnly.

"Sol, I've never seen you near a horse in your life," Rosaline said.

"It's about the aesthetic."

The conversation dissolved into more laughter, overlapping declarations about future titles — Baroness Lovelace of Potions, Lord Moonfall of Unnecessary Diplomacy, Lady Eliza Dawson of Auror-ing, Duchess Vivian of Catwalks.

Rosaline felt the warm ache in her chest tighten — the kind of love that hurt because it was too big to hold all at once. She pressed her hand flat against her stomach, pretending it was to steady herself.

This — this night, this mess, this stupid, beautiful, chaotic family — they were hers. And soon, so would someone else.

"You're quiet," Eliza murmured, suddenly beside her, slightly more sober than the others. Her hand covered Rosaline's on her stomach — not knowing, but maybe suspecting.

"I'm just… thinking," Rosaline said softly. "This year was a lot."

"It was." Eliza's smile was small but real. "But we made it."

"We did."

The drunken chaos continued around them — Sol trying to climb a tree using only his tie, Magnus falling asleep upright against Artemis, Gwenog dramatically reciting old Quidditch plays to no one in particular.

Rosaline held onto Eliza's hand, grounded, and for one perfect moment, she was just a sister. Not a secret. Not a girl on the edge of the next terrifying thing. Just Rosaline.

Tomorrow would come.

But tonight belonged to the WIX.

And nothing could take that from them.